Living On Dreams
by amaltia
Summary: She's a girl that lives on dreams. What does that mean? Ginny hasn't touched a diary in years, but something has made her begin to write again. A confused and troubled peek into her mind. PG13 for angst/darkness.


**Written:** October 20 2004

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all its characters belong to J.K. Rowling and other associated companies. I do not claim to own any of these, though the views expressed are my own. However, use of original plots/themes/ideas will not be tolerated.

**A/N:** A second HP fanfic--it seems like I enjoy writing Ginny angst! A rather absurd stream of consciousness on Ginny's part; have no clue where it came from and am afraid sound slightly crazy.

**Living On Dreams**

The Burrow  
July 31, 1999

He smiled at me in the strangest way today, probably thinking back to a year ago. The stink of the past is thick, and the gazes are full of pity and reproach. I hope I've ruined his birthday party by being gloomy.

I've been thinking. I've noticed that people live off of ephemeral things: hopes, dreams, joys, fears, faith....

Faith. Believing in something with no proof. Believing blindly just because you _feel_ it's right. Because it has a tingle of truth. Because it stirs something inside of you, and you don't quite know what that something is.

Faith.

Faith and dreams seem pretty much the same thing to me.

You've got to believe in both of them, trust both of them, hope for both of them, all with a small voice in the back of your head saying that there's a small chance it isn't true.

I lost my faith in him, and with my faith I lost my dreams.

Did you know that religions die when they are proved to be true? I found that in my history book, said by a wizard called Wilde. It's funny that though I do not know who he is, that sentence makes perfect sense to me.

Religions are just like faith. Which is why I stopped believing in him when he proved to me how good he was, because suddenly I realized that he actually _was_ good and that I had been right.

What use was there to continue believing when the proof existed? It wasn't believing anymore, it was just knowing, and somehow that wasn't half as inspiring as believing was.

Somehow things are about ten times better when you believe and don't actually know. It seems strange to think about. You'd think that you'd rather know than believe, so that you can be sure, but it's really better to believe; people live off of beliefs! Because when you know, that precise moment when you can taste the knowing in your mouth...

My throat was dry and I looked up at him, hardly daring to believe my eyes. He was still holding the wand in his hand, and his face was twisted in a savage grin of triumph, more of a smirk really, but with Draco, what can you expect?

His father lay dead at my feet. Dead, dead, dead. Lying there like a worn statue, a small diary peeking out of his pocket. My diary. Tom's diary. _The_ diary.

I'd always thought Draco would turn against Tom. Turn against the dark side just for the sake of doing it, for the thrill of being out of control, of being independent. No one else had believed me, but now they would. And what would I do, with nothing to fight for, to defend?

Draco summoned it, the diary, threw it on to the ground, and whispered, "_Incendio_!"

All gone in flames. All my faith gone, and--

...it feels like a dream come true. The problem with dreams is that they are always ten times better when you've imagined them than when they come true. Disappointing, really.

The element of suspense is torn out of your life; the strength you had pride in, that strength to believe that some good could be found in someone when no one else thought there was any... it can make you feel special.

So maybe it's selfish that I hate knowing and prefer believing. Maybe it's selfish that I wish he'd never shown his good side.

I live in a dream world, they say. Harry thinks it too. I can tell by the way he looks at me sometimes, looks at my face and messy hair and he thinks I look like I've just got out of bed.

That's probably why I prefer dreams. I live off of them. So many dreams! Dreams of other worlds, dreams of guys, of kisses, of dates, dreams of being the best, of sacrificing myself for everyone else so they would finally know that I was worth something....

Dreams.

Nothing but dreams. And since I know those dreams can't be true, I'm happy and secure dreaming them. I'm sadder but safer. I'm free too. Free to be whoever I want to be in my little dream world. No one can disrupt it, whereas if it was reality... reality can be disrupted. Destroyed. Dreams deceive, reality just kills.

He laughed when he was done, and gave me a look. I knew what it meant. It meant that he had no use for me any longer, because he didn't need anyone to believe in him. He didn't even believe in himself. He _knew_ himself.

He ran his hand through his hair and walked off. Blond hair, brown hair, it all looked the same, it all felt the same, three faces blurred into one and I cried out against the outrage of having been used by three sucessive guys.

That's why I've begun to write in a diary again, when I haven't touched one in years. It's the only anchor my dreams have to the real world, and it makes them more solid. It makes me feel like someone else knows, and I know I can trust that someone else, because this time that someone else is a dream.

That's why, years ago, he took me in so easily, because he knew the words I wanted to say and I thought he was someone only I would believe in... He listened, he advised, he comforted... he used... You know what word comes after each of these. Me. Me, me, me, me. Sometimes I wish I could go back to those few minutes when it seemed like I was the center of the world.

But I hadn't thought things would end the way they did.

I had faith, and I lost it, and all I have now is dreams.

Empty dreams.

.The End.


End file.
